


Until they think warm days will never cease

by jessclare



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Slow Burn, disaster queers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21717901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessclare/pseuds/jessclare
Summary: Aziraphale says Crowley goes too fast for him and Crowley slams on the brakes. Slow-burn pining and old-fashioned courting ensue.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 60
Kudos: 408





	Until they think warm days will never cease

_ You go too fast for me, Crowley. _

Most people (and celestial beings) would have argued that six-bloody-thousand years without so much as hand-holding wasn’t setting much of a pace, and in any other case Crowley would have agreed passionately. Except.

Except this was Aziraphale, and if that was how Aziraphale felt then Crowley was willing to slam on the brakes and slow the whole thing down to the absolute crawliest of crawls  – no pun intended  – and let the angel take his sweet time working up the courage or whatever it was he needed in order to finally reach out. Because the silver lining to the moving-at-zero-miles-per-century car that was their relationship was of course that Aziraphale had not, had never actually objected to being on board, just to the speed at which Crowley was operating it.  _ Maybe one day _ . _ Dine at the Ritz. _ And if that  _ one day _ was several millennia into the future, if Aziraphale wanted him to crawl, then, well, then Crowley would crawl.

This only applied to the metaphorical vehicle and its speed, of course, Crowley mused as he stroked the leather-lined seat of the Bentley and maneuvered the car around a double-decker, briefly borrowing the lane going in the opposite direction and eliciting an indignant shriek from the angel sitting beside him. Being immortal had its perks, and arguably among of the most important was the fact that you could always afford to wait just a little bit longer. Seven thousand years for a dinner date, for example. Crowley had never understood the calmness with which humans with their soft, rotting bodies and blink-of-an-eye lifespans reassured themselves that good things come to those who wait, but in the case of an immortal courting another immortal, there really was no need to rush those good things.

The courting was made easier by the admission on both sides that regardless of whatever else they might or might not be, they genuinely were best friends. So, Crowley had established, friend activities were firmly on the menu. Furiously extravagant day drinking, attending whatever cultural exhibits the humans had dreamed up (as long as it wasn’t anything too soppy), covering for each other at work –  these were all accepted forms of friend-time and they both eagerly sought them out. There had been an incident, once, in the Bentley, when they had been returning from what felt like the millionth time of seeing Hamlet (and it might actually have been the millionth, but Aziraphale had insisted on going). They’d stopped at a red light and the car stereo had suddenly spilled out the soft opening notes of  _ Love of My Life _ and Crowley had jammed his palm against the controls as if to physically force the song back inside the speakers, but the  ( literally and figuratively) cursed car had played through the whole song and traffic hadn’t moved until the very last strands of the ballad had slithered into the uncomfortable silence of the car, despite the fact that Aziraphale had seemed to be doing his best to miracle the red light into green, staring intently in front of him. As soon as they reached the outskirts of Soho, Aziraphale had shifted in his seat, mumbled something about walking the rest of the way, actually, thanks awfully much, and slipped out of the car before it had even stopped fully. Since then, Crowley hadn’t really paid much attention to traffic regulations. It was much easier to keep things light and breezy when they were breezing through town at dangerously many miles per hour, Aziraphale too distracted by his disapproval and Crowley covered by the excuse that leaning across against Aziraphale’s seat simply gave him a better view of the road ahead. Bickering and bantering, they always found their comfortable rhythm, and the more reckless the drive back to Soho, the bigger the likelihood of Crowley being invited to the bookshop for a glass or two of whatever delicious vintage Aziraphale had managed to get his hands on. “The traffic is so awful right now, my dear,” Aziraphale would say, fingers lingering on the door handle of the car. “It would be much safer for you to drive home in an hour or so. A drink before you go?”

The thing was, though. There was a thing and it was this: when you’re courting someone and you’re trying to be very respectful and gentlemanly about it, it does not do to go in for a nightcap when your heart’s intended suggests it, to leave the safety and propriety of the public setting and go sit in the warm lamp light of a bookshop back room and swirl a deliciously sanguine port around the glass and watch the person you’re courting lean their head back, close their eyes and sigh as the wine sends a wholly indecent blush creeping over their cheeks. The feelings bubbling up in Crowley when they were alone in the shop late at night were so far from gentlemanly that he thought (not incorrectly) that any angel worth their title should be able to sense it, smell the fact that someone has sinned in these rooms, in thoughts if not in deeds. Luckily, Aziraphale rarely got visitors from the head office.

Another thing making courtship easier was that Aziraphale had quite an unashamed soft spot for the nice things in life. You never had to worry about doing _ too much _ for someone who had in actual reality made the calculation that being guillotined was somehow the lesser evil compared to not getting proper crêpes for lunch. Crowley had never really had any qualms about going above and beyond for the angel  – although he’d rather have been discorporated than admit it, and he always shrugged off the angel’s gratitude and pushed up his sunglasses to hide the pleased glow in his eyes. He loved taking Aziraphale to lavish lunches and sold-out, rave-reviewed shows where two seats had miraculously just become available after some City banker’s evening with his mistress had been interrupted by his wife walking into the office at a bad time. A temptation and a swift delivery of justice like that meant both the demon and the angel could tick one more thing off their to-do lists, and take the night off.

And so, Crowley and Aziraphale worked away blessing and cursing the Earth, honouring their Agreement to help one another out, with lunches, walks in the park, dinners in not-too-dimly-lit-or-rose-adorned restaurants scattered in between. Normal friend things, and if Aziraphale’s touch sometimes lingered or an unmistakably non-friend love-light sometimes shone in his eyes, Crowley willed himself to not read too much into it.

The really rather inconvenient matter of the Antichrist and the End of the World had been a bit of a nasty jar, and had done its best to sabotage Crowley’s masterfully laid plans. Emotions ran rather too high for a while  – it’s impossible to be very casual about asking someone to move with you to another galaxy  – but even at his most desperate, Crowley had tried not to spook Aziraphale. _ I lost my best friend _ , he choked out, and while not a lie, it wasn’t all he’d wanted to say. Everything had turned out alright though, better than alright in fact. What with Aziraphale’s corporation walking away from hellfire unharmed and Crowley’s own smirking up from a bathtub full of holy water asking for a towel, both of their employers-slash-executioners seemed reluctant to get in very close contact with them, or bother them with petty work. And after the much too romantically charged lunch turned into dinner at the Ritz (although Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind, that time), Crowley had carefully slowed things back down. He’d walked Aziraphale to the door of the bookshop, watched him fuss with the keys and glance up at Crowley with something like nervousness in his eyes, and softly said,

“Good night, angel.”

And walked back to the car. He had turned to look at Aziraphale, the angel looking the tiniest bit crumpled inside the golden frame of the open door, and rolled his eyes at the small smile and wave he got in return. The door of the bookshop hadn’t closed until he’d turned the corner and could no longer see the rectangle of soft light, or the softly glowing figure inside.

\--

It was a tame, warm morning, with a suggestion of autumn already whispering through the trees and the sun casting a warm blush on Soho as Crowley weaved his way through the traffic and parked the car. In the research he’d done, gentleman callers were always taking ladies out for a walk, so they could stroll side by side and cast shy glances at one another, and that had seemed like an easy way to kick the whole courting thing off again. The bookshop was dusty and quiet, with only slim shards of golden sunlight filtering onto the towering bookshelves. A customer wandered into view with a book clutched to her chest, but hastily stuffed the book into the nearest shelf and scurried out when Crowley gave her a menacing look. The sign on the door flipped to _ Closed  _ as she hurried past making a mental note not to go back to the creepy, quiet shop ever again.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley called into the empty space. “You in here?” For the briefest of moments, a terror clutched at his chest. It didn’t happen often, now, but sometimes flashes of his worst fear coming true in this bookshop, with the books up in flames and his best friend nowhere to be found, still hit him again. Heat ran over his skin, making him shudder. 

“Crowley?” A pleased voice came from behind him and the demon whipped around. Aziraphale was beaming at him, followed by a small frown. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Crowley said, and pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head. The brief sense of relief was briskly replaced with something like butterflies swarming around inside him. “Listen. I was wondering, would you like to go for a walk with me? St James’s. Or anywhere you want to, really, ‘s a lovely morning.” He forced his mouth shut before any more babbling could make its way out. He was supposed to play it  _ cool _ .

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes ever so slightly and tilted his head. “That sounds nice.” Whatever suspicion Crowley’s blabbering about lovely mornings had raised in him dissipated as a thought occurred. “Oh! And there’s an interesting new place I’ve been meaning to try for lunch. I hear they do spectacular cocktails, too, so I suppose if we stretch out the lunch a bit…”

Crowley ran a hand through his hair. This, then, was the hard part. This was him putting the brakes on and taking things slow. “Yeah, actually, I have a thing I need to do. All the way  – out of town  – can’t stay for lunch.” The angel’s shoulders drooped. “Still good for a walk though? I’ll buy you an ice cream. Or you can have the bread I got for the ducks.”

“Oh, alright. I’ll get my coat. You didn’t get the ducks a nice wheel of brie too, by any chance?”

They made their way through Piccadilly Circus and down Regent Street, into the relative peace and quiet of St James’s Park. Crowley made good on his promise and bought them ice cream, trying to be discreet about watching Aziraphale as the angel’s tongue darted out to lick at the melting cream, gently, precisely. The sun shone warm on his back but Crowley felt unaccountably hot, and slightly bothered. Aziraphale sighed contentedly.

“It _ is  _ a nice day. Did you have something you wanted to talk about?” His voice was tinged with worry again.

“No, no. Just fancied a walk, that’s all. Hadn’t seen you in a while, so.”

“Well, it’s only been a couple of days. And it’s your own fault for not staying for longer last time, for having somewhere to be. Are you sure everything is fine?”

Crowley spotted a bench on the side of the footpath and flopped down in one smooth movement. Aziraphale dabbed the corner of his mouth with a tiny paper napkin, placed it in the bin and sat down. Back straight, facing slightly towards Crowley. 

“Everything’s fine,” Crowley said, looking Aziraphale in the eye. “Bloody Antichrist is just not a very good car mechanic, I’ve been having to hunt down some spare parts for the Bentley.” He gave the angel what he hoped was a winning/dashing/reassuring smile. He wouldn’t ever have lied to Aziraphale, not under normal circumstances, but it was crucial the angel didn’t worry. Crowley just needed to seem cool, breezy, with business to attend to. So they could go slow. He wanted to kick himself for not realising that it might seem suspicious to the angel that their walks were no longer stretching out into lunch into dinner into drinking at the bookshop until 4 a.m.

Aziraphale relaxed. Not into the kind of spineless lounging position Crowley favoured, but he rolled back his shoulders and smiled. “I suppose it’s fair to say he’s not much of a book connoisseur, either. But I am ever so grateful that he saved the shop.” He looked at his hands and went silent. 

Crowley slumped down on the seat so that their knees touched, very lightly. “Yeah. He did good.”

The silence they shared was comfortable in the way it could only be when it’s been worked to perfection between two people over millennia, made up of things wordlessly said and unsaid. But that was not what a romantic promenade was supposed to be about. Crowley had been reading up on it, reluctantly, and polite conversation about their respective likes and dislikes, with the underlying hope that “you” might be on the list of likes shyly confessed, seemed to be in order. But he already knew what Aziraphale liked, so...

“Tell me about this new restaurant, then.”

The angel launched into an enthusiastic description of flavours and textures and the brilliantly promising career of the chef and Crowley tried to hide his smile. He then realised there was no longer any need to pretend to be enemies for the benefit of any outside eyes watching them, and grinned up at Aziraphale, now leaning towards the demon and gesturing wildly.

“You have to promise me we’ll go there soon! The menu is seasonal but we might still get the strawberries if we act quickly.”

“Oh, alright, angel. Friday?”

Aziraphale smiled a warm smile. “It’s a date.”

Crowley fixed his gaze on the ducks swimming about in the pond, willing his voice to stay steady and breezy. “Yeah. Yup. Date.”

\--

The restaurant was buzzing with people trying to cram a quick, instagrammable culinary adventure into their lunch break. Aziraphale had made an honest-to-goodness reservation, although Crowley suspected it probably wasn’t purely down to good luck that they’d managed to get a table on such short notice. Best table in the place, too, in a corner by the window. Aziraphale took care of ordering, charming the waiter into bringing them dishes that were strictly speaking not part of the lunch menu. Crowley focused mostly on the wine  – very good  – and stealing small bites from Aziraphale’s plate. The excited lunch hour chatter surrounding them forced the two to lean in closer to continue their conversation, which Crowley didn’t mind.

Sharing a meal with Aziraphale was always a pleasure. Ever since Rome, the angel had always managed to dazzle Crowley with his passion for the earthly pleasures of good food and his extensive knowledge of different cuisines. Left to his own devices, Crowley didn’t much care for eating, but coaxed by Aziraphale to “just have a taste of this” or “try that with this, dear”, he’d enjoyed many very, very pleasant meals indeed. The fare in this place was veering towards the ridiculous, though, and while he admired the trendy crowd gathered in the small restaurant, he couldn’t help but feel like they were mostly here for a glossy snapshot of themselves daintily holding a fork above a meticulously arranged plate of weird ingredients, rather than being driven by a true appreciation for the culinary arts. 

“Just try it though,” Aziraphale was saying, holding up a spoon. They’d progressed to dessert and Aziraphale, very particular about his puddings, was in raptures. 

“It’s charcoal, angel. That’s not food.” And frankly, he’d had enough of coals and fire and such for a while.

“It’s an activated charcoal mousse, and it is _ divine  _ with the strawberries.”

Crowley made a face. “You’re not making it sound any more appetising.” 

“Oh, you’ll love it.” At some point during the course of the lunch they’d moved to sit next to each other rather than opposite, to hear each other over the noise, and Aziraphale shamelessly took advantage of their new arrangement. Gently but firmly, he grabbed Crowley’s chin with one hand and while the demon’s mouth was open in shock and outrage, he stuck a spoonful of the greyish black substance in. 

Crowley closed his mouth and felt a) the mousse melt on his tongue, a sweet, summery aroma spread into his nostrils and b) Aziraphale’s fingers still resting against his jaw and the angel’s eyes sparkling at him. And finally, mortifyingly, c) a blush creeping up his neck. “Good,” he managed, swallowing hard, “it’s alright, yeah.”

Aziraphale smiled and let his hand fall onto the table. His mischievous gaze stayed on Crowley’s increasingly flushed face and he quirked an eyebrow. “I have impeccable taste.”

After that, Crowley’s brain was pretty much useless. They paid (presumably) and somehow made the short walk back to the bookshop. At the door, Aziraphale turned looking apologetic.

“I should actually keep the shop open for a while, now.”

Crowley blinked and nodded slowly. He knew it was impossible after their leisurely walk in the cool autumn air but he swore he could still feel the angelic fingerprints deliciously burning the skin along his jawline.

Aziraphale touched his arm, all warm smile and affectionate eyes. “Thank you for a lovely lunch.”

Crowley’s own hand came up instinctively to cover Aziraphale’s, and in the gentle afternoon sun it felt like touching a live wire.

“See you soon.” He turned, dazed, and hoped to disappear into the crowd in a cool and casual manner.

“Crowley? You actually left your car there  – ”

Oh. Right.

\--

They kept going for walks, to lunches, theatre, dinner. Crowley picked Aziraphale up and drove him home, opened doors for him, glared at waiters who dared offer them anything but the best tables. Days stretched out in front of them blissfully void of any heavenly or hellish interruptions, nights spent pacing around the flat, sleepless in a sadly angel-less bed.

One night they attended a rooftop cinema screening of some obscure French short films, mostly tempted by the wine selection and unseasonably warm weather. They were shown to their seats, or seat rather  – Crowley panicked slightly at the sight of a cosy, small sofa covered in pillows and blankets. The rooftop was draped with pale string lights and flickering lanterns and the seating was arranged in small groups quite far apart  – great for the general avoiding-of-people thing he always preferred but combined with the low lighting and the velvety night softly wrapping around them, it was a touch more romancey than he’d planned. Although, come to think of it, this had been Aziraphale’s idea so he couldn’t really be blamed for the unfortunate slip-up. The angel was currently lifting the blankets and arranging the pillows to form a perfectly cosy nest that would keep them warm even if the night got colder. Crowley hesitated and Aziraphale looked up from the pile of blankets he’d settled into, eyes dark and skin golden in the low light.

“Pour me a glass, please?”

Crowley plonked the glasses down on the rickety side table and poured them both a generous serving from the bottle they’d picked up from the bar. He handed Aziraphale his glass and eyed the sofa, trying to come up with a solution that wouldn’t involve him spending the next couple of hours fully pressed against the angel’s warm body from ankle to shoulder. Unfortunately no such solution presented itself, Aziraphale having seated himself rather close to the middle of the already not very roomy sofa. Crowley held his breath and fitted himself into the narrow space left. 

They sat quietly swirling the wine in their glasses, listening to the muffled sounds of the city around them and the low murmur of other cinema-goers. Eventually the voices grew more hushed and the screen in front of them flickered with the opening titles of the first film. Later, Crowley could not have told anyone what that or any of the other films were really about, because at the same moment the lights dimmed and the music started, a warm arm came up and draped a blanket over Crowley’s slouched shoulders. Aziraphale shifted, let out a small sigh and relaxed, leaning against Crowley like that was something they did all the time. Now that they were covered by the same blankets and flanked by an abundance of soft pillows, Crowley started getting quite comfortably warm and couldn’t help but let go somewhat. He could feel his thigh pressing against the angel’s, the contact solid and reassuring. Aziraphale’s shoulder rose and fell in time with his breathing and he seemed completely satisfied with the setup. Crowley stole a look at the angel, the screen casting a silvery glow onto his profile as he stared in front of him, a small smile curving the corner of his mouth. Every now and again he lifted the wine glass to his lips and the ruby liquid splashed against his mouth. Crowley figured it was only polite to keep track of this process so he could offer a top-up when it became necessary.

The films showed back to back, Crowley poured them more wine. When the bottle was empty, he waved the bottle questioningly at Aziraphale and gestured at the bar, but Aziraphale shook his head slightly.

“Don’t get up.”

Then, two things happened. The bottle in Crowley’s hand suddenly felt heavy, having just filled itself back up again. A sweet, smoky scent floated in the air. And: a warm hand settled on Crowley’s thigh. Not patting or squeezing, and not suggestively high or anything, just resting there both light and heavy. Crowley nearly dropped the wine bottle. Aziraphale just smiled a soft smile and held up the glass in his free hand.

Now, what do you do when an angel you’ve had some kind of a crush on for six thousand years puts his hand on your thigh, waits until you’ve poured him a glass of wine that’s perfectly tailored to your tastes, and then turns back to watch the film, eyes flashing and glittering and reflecting the moving shapes on the screen and face set in a serenely, vaguely pleased expression? You can’t take that hand into yours, obviously. That would cross all sorts of lines and you’re trying to Take Things Slow. You can’t move away because there’s no room on the dumb romantic sofa and because, well, you don’t want to. Crowley resorted to doing nothing, just clutching his wine glass with both hands and pretending to watch the film. It was somewhat difficult to follow though  – some bloke was monologuing about God, and humans, even the interesting artistic types, tended to be so tedious about that sort of thing. Much more interesting was the fact that God’s very own messenger was resting his hand on Crowley and occasionally he would shift in his seat and his fingertips would press very lightly into the tense muscle shivering under a tight layer of denim, and it felt like tiny slivers of hellfire pressing into his flesh in that it was hot and cold at the same time and felt, weirdly, utterly, like home.

In a very sudden and impolite interruption to a situation so perfectly comfortable they could have just stayed there for a century or two, the screen went black and the lights starting coming back on. And just like that, Aziraphale was fussing with the blankets and the hand was gone. Crowley felt as if he might float untethered into the cold blank night sky.

“What did you think?” So sunny, so breezy. Slightly mischievous, too, so Crowley knew Aziraphale himself had some gently witty criticisms to give. He cleared his throat.

“The God one was cute.” He attempted a sarcastic smirk but had a sinking feeling it probably came out more on the side of lovesick puppy gazing adoringly at its owner.

Aziraphale laughed, and Crowley felt the exact same amount of joy and devotion that a puppy dog would when it has managed to please its master. “Poor, sweet humans,” Aziraphale said in a low voice. “It must be so hard for them.”

On the way back to Soho, Crowley didn’t have to put much effort into driving recklessly, the Bentley only trying to keep up with his racing thoughts. Aziraphale was uncharacteristically quiet, only piping up when Crowley legitimately almost slammed the car into a lamppost. (He’d been thinking about the way Aziraphale’s head tilted back when he took a sip, about the silvery light playing on his exposed neck.) They got out of the car when it pulled up in front of the bookshop  – parked in the middle of the street, it was late so any traffic would just have to deal with it  – and walked to the door in silence. Aziraphale had stopped inviting Crowley in for just-one-more-drink and they had settled into a new routine of saying goodnight at the door. 

“Well,” Aziraphale said.

“It was fun,” Crowley said. 

“Good night, then.” The angel looked hesitant, head tilted such a tiny fraction to the side it should have gone unnoticed, but for someone used to observing that perfect posture from every angle for thousands upon thousands of years it was obvious, even if the meaning was not. Aziraphale’s eyes were dark sapphire in the shadow and he was picking at the side of a perfectly manicured nail that had absolutely nothing to pick at.

Crowley took a deep breath and a step forward, let his fingers brush the angel’s immaculate collar, and placed a gentle kiss on his warm cheek.

“Good night.” 

Aziraphale drew in a sharp breath and the whisper-light sound followed Crowley as he stepped back. The angel may have flushed, or maybe it was just the light from some nearby neon sign bouncing off his cheeks. Either way, he looked down, then back up at Crowley, and smiled the kind of small smile that is desperately fighting to break out into a full grin but losing, for now.

“Drive safe,” he said, voice unbearably soft.

It took a while before Crowley could calm down enough to drive at all. The Bentley seemed very much like it wanted to bust out the ballad section of  _ The Best of Queen _ but Crowley gave the stereo a stern glare.

“I don’t need your input, thanks.”

\-----

"Pass me that ledger, will you?"

Crowley un-draped himself from the back of the chair and reached out for the leather-bound book Aziraphale was holding out his hand for. Rain pattered the windows of the shop and a few soaked customers wandered between the shelves looking miserable, either because of the rain or because the owner of the bookshop had promised to be with them  _ in just a moment _ but was, many a moment later, still hanging out at the till with a black-clad sunglasses-indoors-wearing man, the two of them clearly, aggressively flirting with each other and violently, uselessly trying to act like they weren't.

"I'm just saying, angel. Ducks," Crowley continued an argument they had briefly abandoned in favour of Aziraphale playing shopkeeper. He had opened the ledger and was tapping an uncapped fountain pen against the page looking serious and business-like. Crowley grabbed an abandoned receipt from the counter, rolled it into a ball and threw it at Aziraphale.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale frowned at him without any real heat in his voice - at least, not from anger. He gently placed the rolled-up receipt into a wastepaper basket and straightened his waistcoat which had taken absolutely no damage from being hit with a scrap of paper. Crowley leaned his elbows against the till, looking at the angel over his sunglasses. They shared a small smile.

"Excuse me," an obviously fake cough very rudely pulled them out from the Moment they were having. A man in an expensive suit was tapping at his watch in an unselfconsciously cartoonish way. "You said ‘just a moment’ fifteen minutes ago and you really don't seem busy, whereas I  – "

"Shop's closed," Crowley drawled, side-eyeing the man. "Come again soon."

The man said  _ what _ and Aziraphale repeated his exasperated  _ Crowley _ .

"What were you looking for?" Aziraphale rounded the counter, pushing Crowley from his path. The demon fell back into the chair he'd been lounging in, dramatically holding his side. 

"I don't know, something for my brother for his birthday. He's into books and such. And quickly, please, some of us have actual business to attend to."

Aziraphale stopped in his tracks. "Actually, I just realised that we are, in fact, closed. My apologies." Behind him, Crowley suppressed a laugh. "I do hope you find what you're looking for somewhere else."

The man seemed to consider yelling, his mouth opening in preparation, but his eyes happened to catch Crowley's and he thought better of it, instead muttering something about how this was exactly why the economy was going the way it was and leaving as quickly as he could without sacrificing all of his dignity.

Aziraphale turned to Crowley. "Can you believe it?  _ Books and such _ ? I absolutely refuse to serve a barbarian like that."

Crowley smirked. "You're so very bad at running a business."

"I'm not, I just think it's important to nurture the right kind of clientele." 

“I should probably leave, then,” Crowley mused, leaning back in the chair and looking up at Aziraphale who had returned to the till. 

“Oh, hush. You’re like a bookshop mascot. Like a dumb, illiterate bookshop cat. It makes the place more attractive,” Aziraphale cleared his throat and focused intensely on the log book. “To customers. Gives it more character.”

“Glad to hear you’re just keeping me as a pet to further your business goals.” Crowley got up, made a quick calculation and then (with a little miracle-ing help, although it wasn’t like his physical fitness was lacking in any way, thank you very much) he hopped onto the counter and sat down, cross-legged, in front of Aziraphale who was clutching the ledger to his chest, looking scandalised.

“Get off the counter!”

“Was there a sign saying I shouldn’t sit here? Because I’m dumb, and can’t read.”

Aziraphale huffed and rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible.” 

“I’m  _ attractive _ . To customers, of course.”

“Foul fiend.” Aziraphale pushed the ledger onto Crowley’s lap. “I need to check on those customers back there. Keep an eye on the register.” His harsh tone was softened immeasurably by the small smile he gave Crowley before disappearing behind the shelves.

\---

A nice suit gleaming darkly in the perfectly placed spotlights in Crowley’s bedroom. Hair done with the utmost care, sunglasses tucked into breast pocket. Earlier that day, he’d phoned Aziraphale:

“Dinner tonight?”

“I’d love that.” A voice so warm on the other end Crowley’s ear grew hot against the receiver.

“Where d’you want to go? Ritz?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Surprise me. Pick me up at seven?”

It was six now, and a considerable amount of time had been spent picking out an outfit that said  _ trying _ , but also  _ it’s cool, whatever _ . But also,  _ I really, really am trying _ . Crowley scowled at the bow tie in the mirror and tore it off. He snapped his fingers and a wine glass obediently transported itself from the bedside table to his hand. Human clothes were usually fun for him, but today nothing looked good enough. And dressing to impress someone whose taste in fashion remained several decades behind the current vogue was not an easy task, anyway. He willed the glass in his hand to refill itself and grimaced at the bitter taste of a cheap, room-temperature white. Things were really not going his way. He toyed with the idea of cancelling the date  – or dinner, whatever. Dinner. Not a date. Although he had felt brave earlier and booked a table at a very intimate, candle-light-y Italian, which he now regretted bitterly. Things had been so good lately, with Aziraphale positively showering him with gentle affection, teasing and feigning indignation at his antics. He didn’t want to go back to _ you go too fast for me _ , slammed car doors and empty silences, now.

At seven o’clock exactly, Crowley got out of the car outside A.Z. Fell & Co. He’d sobered himself up on the way and felt even more jittery without the warmth of alcohol coursing through him. The window panes of the shop threw shimmering shapes of light onto the grey pavement. The blinds were drawn on the door, the sign turned to Closed. Crowley touched the door with his fingertips and felt the lock start to give way, recognising a familiar touch, a welcome visitor. He pulled his hand back and knocked instead.

He heard footsteps, then the lock sliding open, and light flooded onto the dark steps. 

“Hello.” He could have sworn Aziraphale’s head was actually circled by a halo, platinum curls backlit by the shop’s golden lighting. A pleased, if somewhat stunned, expression greeted him. Aziraphale’s gaze roamed his body from head to toe. Crowley tugged at his collar, the silky fabric cool to touch, feeling ridiculous and overdressed. Finally:

“You look nice,” Aziraphale said in a way that seemed to put the word  _ nice  _ in italics. Crowley flushed, his mind unhelpfully skipping back to another time Aziraphale had called him nice, and his panicked overreaction to it. Not that Aziraphale had protested being pinned against the wall, Crowley’s hands clutching his lapels, nose to nose. He cleared his throat.

“You too.” And Aziraphale did of course, perfectly dressed in a three-piece suit in lush fabrics Crowley very much would have liked to run his fingers over, maybe snake a hand underneath. “Shall we?” 

“Where are we going?” 

“Not far. That Italian place  – we went past it last week.” Crowley suddenly felt nervous. “I hope that’s okay, it’s kind of local to you so you must be pretty bored of it  – we don’t have to  – ”

Aziraphale paused with a hand on Crowley’s sleeve. “I’ve never been, actually. It didn’t seem the type of place you’d go alone. Lots of… couples, and such.” He wasn’t looking at Crowley, but continued softly. “I’m glad we’re going.”

Crowley’s heart felt several sizes too big for the tight jacket he had on. 

They walked the short distance to the restaurant and by the time they got there, Aziraphale’s nose had been bitten to a flushed pink by the late autumn wind. Crowley opened the door for him and briefly touched his back as the angel walked in, the way he’d seen humans sometimes do to show they were chivalrous, a gentle possessiveness underlying the gesture.

The restaurant was, in a word, intimate, with the few tables all set for two and scattered at discrete intervals throughout the small room. The soft ambient lighting was supplemented by candles on each table, and fresh roses were dripping down the walls in waterfalls of red and white and green foliage. A quiet piano melody weaved through the low murmur of conversation. Aziraphale tensed for a moment, shoulders held very tight, as he surveyed their surroundings. He looked sideways at Crowley, who felt suddenly miserable.  _ Too fast for me, Crowley _ . He knew he’d got a bit carried away, blinded by the seemingly endless freedom from Heaven and Hell, the soft smiles, the warm hands, the fact that Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind when people mistook them for a couple. He’d pushed them too far and ruined the night for both of them. 

“Is something wrong?” Aziraphale stepped in front of him, eyeing him with a tiny frown.

“No, just… Not really what I expected,” Crowley gestured vaguely at the nearest flower arrangement. “We can go somewhere else if you want.” 

Aziraphale, inexplicably, looked disappointed. “We can. It was fairly nippy out, though, and we’re already here, so.” 

A waiter had been eyeing them from a respectful distance and now stepped in to give them a generous smile and a look that seemed to very politely suggest that they just get on with it.

“Your table is ready, gentlemen.”

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, who wrangled his panic and worry under control, smiled and followed Aziraphale to their table.

\--

“You know,” Crowley said, and leaned forward over his half-finished plate of osso buco. “Our first meal together. Was in Italy.”

Aziraphale smiled, a generous, warm smile. Candle flickered between them. “Ah, yes. Rome. We had oysters.”

“Mmh. You tempted me.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened in mock-outrage and he leaned across the table to touch Crowley’s hand. “I would  _ never _ .” His fingers were warm and electrifying as they brushed the back of Crowley’s hand before drawing back. “I’m shocked you would say such a thing.”

“You did though. That’s when I knew.” The wine made the words slide off his tongue easily, slip into the candlelit air, and nothing short of a miracle could get them back now. Crowley looked at his plate, then at Aziraphale. The angel was sitting very still, hand hanging in the air halfway to grabbing his wine glass. 

“Knew what?” He asked, softly, breathlessly. The background hum of music and other diners fell away.

“Just... “ Crowley braced himself to tell the truth and found that it was not entirely clear even to himself. The smart thing to do would have been to sober up, but talking about your feelings while sober was a skill he still needed to work up to. “That being on Earth, the job, all of it, might not be so bad. Because you were here, too.”

Aziraphale looked at him without speaking for what felt like several nights stretching back to back into the darkness. “I’m afraid I was a bit... puritanical back then. A bit.. jumpy, suspicious still. But I think the feeling was mutual, even then.” 

Crowley wondered whether they were talking about the same thing, whether either of them knew what the Thing even was. And he found it didn’t really matter, found he was willing to wait for them to figure it out as slowly as they needed to. He took a sip. “Wine’s got better since then. I’m glad we stuck around.”

“Oh, rather. This is heavenly.”

It was late when they finally stepped out of the restaurant into the steely cold night. Aziraphale shivered and Crowley mused vaguely why they had ever decided to settle down on this miserable, damp island instead of somewhere warm and sunny. 

“I do love London at night,” the angel sighed, eyes sparkling in the bright lights. And, Crowley guessed, that was the answer. He loved a hot, dry climate, but there were things  – people  – one specific angel  – he loved more. An unforgiveably soft thought, but there it was.

They set back towards the bookshop shoulder to shoulder, and when they passed a group of humans and had to squeeze tighter together, Crowley slipped his arm into Aziraphale’s, pulling him closer. They walked arm in arm the rest of the way.

“Well, this is me,” Crowley said. They’d stopped next to the Bentley in front of the bookshop and the pause had meant their arms had become untangled as well, neither of them saying anything about it. Crowley felt cold without the angel pressed to his side. To steady himself, he slouched with his back against the car. The roses and the wine and the candlelight, the casual touching and almost-confessions of the night lay heavy between them.

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Aziraphale said, looking around as though (only wishful thinking, Crowley told himself) fishing for something to keep the conversation going. “Thank you, Crowley. For picking the restaurant, and  – ” The angel looked down at his hands. “Thank you, for everything.”

Crowley’s brain had just started to turn this over, wondering what was going on in the angel’s head, when he seemed to make up his mind about something. Aziraphale took two careful steps so he was standing right in front of Crowley, almost pinning him against the car. Crowley’s breath caught at the sight of the angel, all blue eyes and blonde curls and pink nose, eyeing him in nervous silence. (Come to think of it, the whole street was oddly quiet, given the late hour and the fact they were in Soho.)

“You’re welcome?” His idiot brain offered, stunned by the sudden proximity, and for a moment he actually longed for the sensation of just sinking through the cool earth straight back to Hell. So much for being smooth and seductive. Aziraphale bit his lip, and good  _ God _ what was happening.

Then, warm hands came up to cradle his neck and Aziraphale took one more step until their bodies were pressed against each other, the door of the Bentley cool against Crowley’s back. Aziraphale traced gentle fingertips up to Crowley’s ear, lingered on the tattoo and took hold of the sunglasses, pulling them off. The angel looked into Crowley’s eyes, a serious look of concentration on his face, and pushed his fingers into Crowley’s hair. A hot wave of hypnotising pleasure shot through him and he closed his eyes just as the angel leaned forward and kissed him.

In his line of work, having been sent to Earth to tempt humans into sin and all that, Crowley had gained some experience in the field of intimate physical contact, but it felt wholly inaccurate to even begin to compare those experiences to this. Aziraphale’s lips were soft and warm like everything else about him, and the familiar scent of the angel knocked him back against the car in an intoxicating rush. He grabbed hold of Aziraphale’s waist and pulled him closer, as close as they could get without actually slipping into one another’s skins. The fingers in his hair were almost pulling, tangling wherever they found longer strands of hair to grip onto. And yet it felt gentle, worshipful, right. He opened his mouth and let the angel explore, taste the wine they had shared and the millennia of longing on his tongue. When Aziraphale pulled away, Crowley tried to follow him, dizzy and pliant in the angel’s arms. 

“Goodnight, my dear.” Aziraphale whispered breathlessly, pressing another kiss to the corner of Crowley’s mouth and smoothing out his collar with tender hands. Then he was gone. Crowley leaned against the car and fought the urge to go after the angel, kick open the just-closed doors and kneel, clutching at his coattails, begging and confessing, pledging to never leave his side. Instead, he drew a shaky breath and slid into the car, head swimming and lips burning with the aftertaste of Aziraphale. He spent a good, long while driving aimlessly around emptying streets before heading home to spend an aggressively sleepless night staring at the ceiling and wondering what the Heaven he should do next.

Eventually, with dawn crawling over the smoggy London skyline, he got up, miracled up a pen and a small square of the nicest cardstock he could think of, and scrawled a small note. Clothes manifested themselves onto his corporation as he headed for the door. A block away from his apartment was a shop he’d purchased some rather well-performing houseplants from, and although they weren’t technically open yet, the door nearly swung off its hinges in its eagerness to make way for the demon strolling through.

“I’d like a bunch of roses delivered. Please.”

“Oh, we’re not  – ” the shop owner turned, looked at Crowley, and put on an exemplary customer service smile. “Of course.”

“Put this in with them.” Crowley handed over the card, daring the shop owner to read it. (‘Thank you for last night’ already sounded stupid and soppy in his ears but it was still several steps more casual than “I’m willing to sit on the pavement outside your shop forever and wait until you’re ready”, which had been his initial impulse.) “And here’s the address. The shop’ll open at ten, probably.” He fished around in his pocket, miracleing a hundred-pound note from it and placing it on the counter. “Cheers.”

\--

Crowley was several hours into pacing around the flat, occasionally pausing to inspect the houseplants, but even they could tell his heart was not really in it today and seemed relaxed, if not downright cocky when he glared at their shiny leaves. He’d ran every scenario in his head with the result that he was too terrified to call, or even consider driving over to Soho, convinced that Aziraphale would have come to his senses overnight and was probably already in France, embarrassed and bingeing on crepes, feeling politely sorry for Crowley but already moving on from the terrible mistake he’d made in kissing him. Prim and proper Aziraphale, who had always been kind to him but then wasn’t that kind of an angel’s job description? Kissing demons on the other hand, not so much. Not part of the job at all.

The doorbell rang. Only, it wasn’t Crowley’s doorbell because he’d incinerated the thing after deciding that doorbells were definitely an invention by someone from his Head Office and he didn’t need people imposing themselves on him like that. But  _ a _ doorbell was ringing now, nonetheless  – a clear, soft sound that echoed pleadingly through the flat. Crowley groaned and made his way to the door. Maybe yelling at some human would make him feel better.

Aziraphale was standing in the hallway, hands behind his back and a nervous smile on his face. “Crowley.”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley ran a hand through his hair and willed his clothes to be clean and Aziraphale-appropriate. He felt a couple of his shirt buttons fall open at this and frowned. 

“Might I come in? It’s okay if you’re busy, or  – ”

“No,” Crowley interrupted, standing aside with one arm holding the door open. “Come on in.”

“Thank you.” 

The angel stepped in and started taking his coat off, eyeing the entrance hall for a place to put it. Crowley snapped his fingers and a clothes rack with a golden, gleaming hanger appeared by Aziraphale’s side. Much too flashy. Oh, Hell. The angel hung his coat without saying anything. 

Crowley led the way to the living room, still furnished with the sofa he’d picked the night he and Aziraphale returned from Tadfield, too tired to overthink it, just wanting a comfortable place for both of them to curl up on. It stuck out somewhat amid the grey concrete and sharp angles, but it seemed a good enough fit for this occasion too, and he steered the angel to it.

“Wine? Or tea? Or… water? Whiskey?”

Aziraphale sat down, hands clasped in his lap, and shook his head. “Can we just talk?” 

“Sure.”

“Last night…” Aziraphale looked uncomfortable. His eyes were fixed on Crowley’s knees, brow furrowed. “I hope  – that is  – I hope I wasn’t  – taking liberties.” 

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. “Liberties? Angel,” he moved closer and raised a finger to tilt Aziraphale’s head up. “I’ve been wishing for that for literal, actual thousands of years.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale’s face lit up. “That’s fortunate, then. I just wasn’t sure if you’d  – I mean  – I’m afraid I’ve been rather fickle.” A slight pinkishness rose to his cheeks. “It was hard for me to not do as I’m told.”

“I know.” Crowley stroked a gentle movement along Aziraphale’s jawline. Here they were, finally. Temptation accomplished  – or rather not: a journey taken together. Crowley cupped Aziraphale’s face in his palm and pressed a soft kiss onto his nose, eliciting a soft huff of laughter from the angel. He leaned in to taste the laugh and was rewarded with a soft gasp against his mouth, followed by arms coming up on both sides of him, drawing him in. Having dined with him so many times, Crowley probably shouldn’t have been surprised by the fact that Aziraphale tended to express his appreciation and approval through small nibbles and pleased moans, but he was glad they were sitting down so he was able to just melt right into the sofa cushions when the angel’s teeth grazed his lower lip. He responded in kind and Aziraphale made a small urgent noise, deepening the kiss with his mouth open and eager. The sofa was, despite its aesthetic shortcomings, very comfortable and accommodated them perfectly when Crowley turned sideways to plaster himself over Aziraphale, pushing the angel against the backrest.

“By the way,” Aziraphale muttered against his lips. “Thank you for the roses. You’ve spoiled me.”

“That’s what I was trying to do,” Crowley smirked, pulling back to look at the angel. His blonde curls were a mess and he was actually, properly, alight with some kind of heavenly radiance. “Anything for you, angel. Anything.”

Aziraphale kissed him lightly and took his face in his hands. “I love you, Crowley.”

It hit Crowley like he imagined a sizeable lead balloon would hit you if someone swung it straight at your solar plexus. He thought they’d already arrived, but there was more, there kept being more than he’d ever dared hope for. The truth was clear, and simple. “I love you, too. I don’t think I’m supposed to be able to, but here we are.”

Aziraphale smiled wide. “On our side, my dear.”

“Our side. My angel.”

\--

Soho was decked out in Christmas lights and through some miracle that every Londoner remarked upon at least three times every day, it looked like they might actually get snow for Christmas this year. The bookshop was open for Christmas shoppers, and the service was as terrible as ever. Customers kept formulating angry reviews and biting social media posts in their heads  – “I tried to buy a book and the shop owner, turning it over in his hands, sighed and said that upon further reflection, that particular title was actually not for sale”, or “I went in and was told by a very intimidating shop assistant that they would be closing early due to it being ‘a weekday, or weekend, or whatever’”, or “Jesus Christ I swear I just walked in on the owners of this one bookshop fully making out against one of the shelves”  – but they somehow always forgot to actually post their exposés anywhere. The angel and the demon took long lunch breaks and closed early in favour of opening a bottle of a nice vintage red and curling up in the back room. They dined out in style before heading back to either of their flats, the angel griping about the demon’s driving on the slippery roads and the demon, occasionally, slowing the car down and taking the angel’s hand. 


End file.
